


The Bride's Death-Song

by Darevskia (Phrynosoma)



Series: Asexual Folktales [1]
Category: Irish Mythology
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexuality, Fairy Tale Retellings, Folklore, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 01:00:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20322469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phrynosoma/pseuds/Darevskia
Summary: A retelling of an Irish story, featuring 100% fewer death-by-broken-hearts.





	The Bride's Death-Song

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-telling of the Irish legend "The Bride's Death-Song." Collected by Lady Jane Wilde in 1888, the original tale features the motif of a bride who mourns herself to death. That's all well and good, but I was more taken with the idea of a girl who was able to charm the sea and it spirits, a woman so commanding even the ocean would obey.

On a lonely channel island, there dwelt a fisherman who, while never wanting a wife, prayed each night for a child. One day while fishing, he pulled up his nets to discover a baby girl with hair as white as the sea foam and skin the warm golden color of tide-washed sand, clutching a perfect pearl in each chubby fist. Despite being pulled out of the rough, frigid waters, the girl was a very happy baby, and the fisherman knew that she was for him. So he took her home and raised her, and he called her Muriel, which means “sea-bright,” or “sea-white." The rest of the islanders, while startled by the girl’s sudden appearance, quickly grew to consider her a blessing, for her father was such a kind man and if anybody deserved to be gifted a child, it was him. Muriel grew up knowing the gentle strength of her father, the fisherman- but also the wild strength of her mother, the ocean. She grew to have great power over the water spirits and knew charms that bound them to obey; if she grew mad, her mother would rise to her defense, and it was a sight to see that white-haired, blue-eyed, sandy-skinned lass glaring at you with a treacherous wave of grey water behind her. But nobody cared if Muriel was a little wild, for you had to be wild to survive living on a channel island; and if she was wild, well, it was also true that she helped a great deal with rounding up the shaggy island ponies and keeping the younger children safe around the coast.

The wild girl grew into a somewhat-less-wild young woman who moved with the fluid grace of the pounding ocean. Everyone said she was her mother’s daughter, but also her father’s daughter, for while she was wild, she had a wonderful heart and was kind and caring. A few fishermen’s sons tried to court her, but her father insisted they ask her for her hand themselves, and Muriel had no interest in _that_. It didn’t take long for the requests to taper off and for Muriel to be considered of special status; a friend to all, much like her father, but not more than that- for, much like her father, she was happy to be unpartnered.

One day, a boat was driven on the shore, and in it was a handsome young gentleman, nearly dead from the cold and wet. He was dressed finely, in silks and velvets, and as Muriel (who had, of course, found him; her mother told him he was there) carried him home, she pitied those fine fabrics- they had been ruined by salt and water. Her father revived him and nursed him and watched him, and Muriel was curious. On the island, nobody would have been so foolish to take a boat _that_ small out in weather _that _bad wearing _those_ clothes- but this man was different. He wasn’t like any other man on the island. When he awoke, he was struck by her beauty, and filled her head with stories about his life; his beautiful, long-legged English horses, his trading houses, his silks and velvets that she could wear, should she so choose, and the gold he would spend on her. But each time he insinuated, she gently shook her head and said that no, she wasn’t interested in being his wife. He then said that he would give up all his mainland luxury and build a home here, on the island; but again she said no, she still wasn’t interested in being his wife. So he laughed at her and stole a kiss, and she stomped her foot, her childhood wildness returning. The sea outside sloshed roughly against the shore, foaming thick.

“You are ill,” she said. “You don’t know what you do.” But he laughed again, and patted her on the bottom, and said she was such a beauty, he couldn’t resist. She turned on her heel and left, irritated. She’d had suitors before. _They_ could all resist. This man just didn’t _want_ to; he was of the sort who thought that finery and finance alone made him irresistible. She wanted to tell her father, but knew it how it would end; the man was ill and even if he was a boor, she didn’t feel comfortable turning him out. The tides pulsed rapidly as she hurried to the town tavern, where she drank and sang and danced with her friends. In this way, she was soothed, for nobody tried to press their advantage or put their hands or lips where they weren’t wanted. She danced with each of the men there and most of the women, and her eyes sparkled like sea glass as she basked in the love of the island.

For three more days she avoided the man as much as she could; each time when she went to tend to him, he reached for her and kissed her. For three nights she went to the tavern and danced until she was happy again. In the morning, she waved goodbye to her father as he headed to the docks; in the afternoons, she stewed over the man’s treatment. He was a guest! Had he no respect for the rules of hospitality? It was clear he had no respect for her desires, but could he not at least behave like a civilized man? He certainly talked a great deal about his society's finery, but she could see little of it in his behavior.

On the fifth day, the man was well enough to stand and walk around. He strutted like a peacock, trying to impress her. Naturally, it didn’t work. He laughed at her again. “What good,” he said, “is an old spinster in a fishing village? I’ll be good to you- I’ll give you fine things, fine children. Marry me, and you’ll have a purpose!”

Muriel’s face blanched as she thought of her friends at the tavern. Even though she would never marry, never have children of her own, she most certainly had a purpose. She thought of them holding hands in a circle, laughing as they brought their arms in and out, whooping as strong, wild Muriel took the lead role in the dance and picked up Tall Sean and spun him in the air- then turned left and picked up Short Sean and did the same to him. _That_ was her purpose, caring for her friends and knowing how much they cared for her.

He had to go. She knew enough of the man to know that he wouldn’t be satisfied until she agreed to be his bride, so she simpered, smiled, and said “Alright. I’ll marry you- but it has to be on this island. I’ll be your bride and take you as a husband. You are well now, so go home and fetch your gold and your silks and your velvets and your laces. Bring them here and I’ll marry you proper.”

Delighted by her change of heart, the man raced to his boat and leaped in. The day was bright and clear, and she stared grimly at the water, for she saw danger coming. She intended to use her charm to roughen the water and make him fearful of the return crossing.

Her mother, however, had other ideas. All was well at first, but no sooner than the man and his boat passed into the channel proper, an enormous grey wave capsized it. The sky was blue, the wind was calm, but the water roiled furiously. Muriel watched, terrified- she hadn’t even begun to sing the charm. She stood on the beach but could give no help- her powers were nothing compared to a mother’s protection of her child.

Touched by the strength of the ocean, Muriel sang a song as she kept vigil that night, the mournful tune still heard echoing on the rocks to this day on quiet nights. The words of the song are honest and true, and directly translate as—

“I swore me a virgin and won’t take a lover;  
But he stole kisses while I said never.  
The cold wave is his bridal bed,  
The cold wave is his wedding shroud.

Had you but listened when I was alarmed  
My spirit and spells would have saved you from harm.  
For my power is strong over waves and wind,  
And my mother’s spirit would not force your end.  
Take heed, take heed, you sailors and fishers  
Always honor a woman’s wishes.  
If the rest of my life I remain alone,  
I will not envy the Almighty His throne.”


End file.
